


Absence

by My_Young_Friend



Category: House
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-24
Updated: 2009-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Young_Friend/pseuds/My_Young_Friend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Established relationship. From the Better On Vicodin Crack!Fest "Cameron accidentally kills Wilson, and House exacts his revenge by killing her."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absence

Title: Absence  
Pairing: House/Wilson with a very one-sided House/Cameron.  
Rating: R (Violence, Drug Abuse, Language, Adult Themes)  
Warnings: Multiple character death. Craploads of angst. Very dark. Up until the end, that is.  
Spoilers: Very small one for Insensitive.  
Word Count: 1332  
Disclaimer: If I owned any of it I'd be too busy staring to write.  
Summary: Established relationship. From the Better On Vicodin Crack!Fest "Cameron accidentally kills Wilson, and House exacts his revenge by killing her."  
Note: Bad!Fic prompt 42 for the BetterOnVicodin Crack!Fest.  
Please PLEASE read the warnings. This is not a happy fic and I don't want to get flamed. Abundant thanks to my Beta, inspiration for and co-writer of the epilogue, [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) .

 

It wasn't an ache. It wasn't a pain. It was an absence. Not the soothing, numbing feeling provided by Vicodin and Whisky. It was nothing; it was something missing. It was the part of him that wasn't him; the part which was now gone.

She'd said sorry too many times. He'd heard every excuse, every explanation from her and the others for how it had happened. Unforeseeable. Unintentional. Mistake. Accident. They seemed to think it would comfort him. He'd gone home to escape them. Back to an apartment that mocked him with its emptiness, despite being full of things belonging to someone else. Someone gone. Someone not coming back.

He'd drunk liquor and popped pills for days. The numbness didn't touch it, not this absence, not this time. He'd gone in and out of consciousness so many times that he couldn't tell if it was night or day without opening the blinds. More times that he could remember even. But he never awoke to a lecture; never to a blanket being draped over him or a sigh and a gentle kiss to his head. Just the absence, amplified.

He'd stopped filling the other prescription. Those pills might have worked before. Then it was frustration, guilt and pain from the infarction underlying the problem. Now those pills reminded him too much. Why he started taking them, why he kept taking them. Just seeing the bottle made things worse. Wilson would have appreciated the irony.

The others had all visited, even Foreman. 'Paying their respects,' they said. He sat, listened and waited for them to leave. He didn't say anything; he just watched them. They weren't here for him anymore than they were here for Wilson. They were here for themselves, to expunge their personal guilt. They wanted the catharsis that followed confession and he didn't care enough to throw them out. So they talked until they felt better and then left.

Chase came to sacrifice himself for her sins, like the good seminary student he had once failed to be. Every excuse previously from her lips came from his. Every apology repeated. Chase searched him for a sign of forgiveness and found none.

"She thought the radiation treatment would save him." "She had no idea." "It was a mistake." "It was an accident."  As though bone marrow was ever 'accidentally' irradiated. As though she 'accidentally' mistook irradiation for the antibiotics she should have prescribed. That he would have prescribed if he'd been there. And wow, didn't that thought sting.

She never came herself. Cuddy said she was on leave; Chase said she was taking it hard; Foreman said she was just being Cameron and not facing up to things. He didn't care.

\------------------------

A week later he was at her apartment, knocking on her door. She looked drained. Without saying anything she let him in and gestured towards the couch. She didn't ask about what he was carrying. He set the box down on the coffee table. He knew she'd never seen it before. Why would she? It wasn't she who had cradled House during the agony; not her that had calmed him enough to inject when the pain was crippling him; not her who had stayed with him, cared for him while the morphine flowed through him. Not her, never her.

Coffee was mentioned and he nodded curtly. She moved to the kitchen, her back to where he was sitting. Seizing the opportunity, he opened the box and prepared the syringe. He rose to lock the door, leaving the vial clearly visible on the table. He wanted her to see it, to know, to feel the fear. Just as Wilson had when his body began to die around him.

He turned to face the kitchen, concealing the syringe behind him. She came back, tray in hand, and saw the vial on the table. Putting the tray down, she reached for the bottle and read the label. He moved quickly, pain not a problem this time. He wasn't sure if she'd noticed him approach or not. She didn't seem to fight as he grabbed her jaw and forced the needle into her neck. Whether it was shock or resignation on her part, he didn't care.

She fell face down onto the couch. He turned her over to face him. She was conscious, but barely. Good. He wanted her to see. She had to see what she had done to him, what her stupid mistake had reduced him to. He'd expected fear or anger. He wanted terror. He wanted her to know she was going to die, like Wilson had known. But not brave like Wilson. He wanted cowardice from her; but he saw stoicism. Her eyes were sad but somehow accepting. Accepting? How dare she? How fucking dare she not be scared? He was about to kill her, she was about to die. Why wasn't she fighting for her life?

He was angry now. He snatched his cane from the side of the couch and pinned it to her throat. He pushed down hard and saw a flicker of fear as she began to choke. Her arms sluggishly shifted in a feeble attempt to fight. He put his full weight on the cane and felt a snap. She stopped struggling and her eyes grew dark. Pupils dilated. Pulse nowhere to be found. It was the second time in a month he'd been witness to the last moments of someone's life.

Slumping to the floor he re-filled the syringe. The pills he'd taken over the past two weeks were probably enough but he was sick of waiting. Tourniquet fixed, he found a vein and injected the morphine into his arm. Job done, he let it fall from his hand. Hazily, he considered a comment Wilson had made about being his 'damned conscience'. That was probably true; Wilson would never have let him do this, or even consider it. But Wilson was dead now and he was soon to follow. With that thought the absence seemed to shrink. He focussed one last time on the now-empty box before drifting into unconsciousness. 

 -------------------------------------------

"Dispatch this is Burke, looks like a 418. Better get the EMTs down to verify it."  
_  
Cameron, I am growing very suspicious over your smile._

_Did you know that I once dated a police officer?-_

_Did you have fun with his nightstick?_

_-He told me all about the call signs they use over the radio. 211 is a murder for example. And 418 is murder/suicide._

_Informative, yet useless. Have you considered a career working for Microsoft?_

_Of course, I hear they're very open to employing disembodied souls as part of their diversity program._

_It would certainly explain a lot. But I return to my original point. Why are you smiling?_

_*shrug* You'll see._

__"Yeah, looks like Romeo here killed his Juliet."__

_Oh no. No. He cannot be _that_ dense._

_Your head is resting on my leg._

_Because I'm _dead_._

_There's no sign of forced entry; and a tray of coffee on the table with two cups? Shows we knew each other enough to be civil. You killed me, then you killed yourself. What else is he supposed to think?_

_He's not supposed to think anything. He's supposed to wait for the detectives. They're the ones who are supposed to jump to conclusions._

_Oh House! Don't you think it's sweet? Two star-crossed lovers, together at last._

_I wish I had a digestive system to evacuate._

_Hmph. Well I'm going to wait and see what happens when they call Cuddy. What are you going to do?_

_I'm going to find Wilson._

_Good luck convincing him "this isn't what it looks like"._

_Unlike you and Deputy Dawg there, Wilson is not a deluded moron._

_I'll still be here when he rejects you._

_You'll be waiting a long time._

_I've got eternity._

_Wilson, where the hell are you? You're not actually falling for this shit?_

_Oh, House, before you go..._

_What?_

_It wasn't an accident._


End file.
